“That your father’s a tyrant?” she said, voice low, fingers smoothing warm ointment into the cut above my brow. “I think that every time you come through that door looking like this.”
She did not speak with pity. She spoke as if naming a fact—an open wound she could not close, no matter how many times she tried.
Lazarus set a steaming bowl of stew before me—lentils and shredded lamb, crushed coriander shining on the surface. Honest food. The warmth rose, smelling of hearth and oil and comfort I’d never had behind House Lorian’s iron gates.
He sat across, elbows on the table, brow furrowed as if weighing questions before they left his mouth. “Tell me what happened with Baelric,” he said.
I leaned back; the chair complained under me. Muscles ached like old ropes pulled tight. My chest felt locked.
“They came with honeyed words and poison promises,” I said. “Grain, soldiers, bronze—gifts wrapped in a leash. They wanted access to our ports, trade along the riverfront, and a seat on our council. Not an ally. But ownership.”
I met Lazarus’ gaze. “They wanted a leash.”
He nodded slowly, jaw working. “And your father expected you to take it.”
“Of course,” I muttered, stirring the stew as if the motion could bring sense into the world. “To him, power is a scale—never enough. I wouldn’t sell our sovereignty for a few ships of barley. I said no. He called it failure.”
“You didn’t fail,” Lazarus said, as quiet as a man who measured his words. “You made the right choice.”
“Maybe.” I watched the spoon trace slow lines in the stew. “Right means nothing to him. Only results matter.”
We ate in silence. The food warmed my belly but did not fill the hollowness pressing my ribs. My eyes kept wandering—mud plaster and faded pigments, jars of pickles, herbs hung like prayers near the lintel.
Peace lived here. Plain and stubborn.
After, we stepped outside. The dusk wore a soft gold; the river beyond the terraces was a slow silver stripe. Crickets stitched the air.
“I envy you,” I told him.
“You envy me?” Lazarus asked, an eyebrow lifting.
“You live where the world asks you to work and love and sleep,” I said. “No one asks you to bleed for a name every dawn. I rise and calculate which part of myself I must sell next to keep my father pleased.”
Silence settled between us—thick and easy. Then hooves rose on the road—measured, urgent.
We turned. Instinct sent my hand to the dagger at my belt.
Four riders cut the dusk, cloaks the color of pressed blood. They pulled to a halt at the lane’s mouth and dropped from their saddles with the creak of leather. Armor sighed—lamellar dull bronze, harnesses rimmed with Lorian red. The horses stamped; the men—my father’s guards—sat helmets in place and silent, like carved sentries come to life.
My jaw tightened. The air pulled thin around my throat.
What now?
The lead guard stepped forward, head lowered in practiced deference. “My lord,” he said, voice brisk and careful, “you are summoned back to the estate. Lord Lorian commands your immediate return.”
I let the words hang and rolled my eyes. “Of course he does. Did he forget to bruise my other side?” The joke came out raw.
The guard faltered—just a breath—and in that thin silence everything rearranged itself. That pause was the shape of bad news.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice low.
His eyes met mine. “Commander Julian has fallen in battle. Word reached the estate just before dusk.”
My lungs stopped. Air congealed in my throat. Julian. The invincible. The golden heir. The perfect son.
Gone.
The world rounded at the edges; sound muffled, as if a hand had pressed over a drum. My heart hammered, but no words rose.
